


Invitations

by elephantfootprints



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Four Weddings and a Funeral - Freeform, Four parts, M/M, one part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantfootprints/pseuds/elephantfootprints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Sherlock and John attended a wedding and one time it was a funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invitations

**Author's Note:**

> Plot structure obviously stolen from Four Weddings and a Funeral
> 
> Beta'd by the splendid [Holes in the Sky](http://theresholesinthesky.tumblr.com/).

When Sherlock first thought about getting a flatmate, he thought it would result in being able to afford a more convenient location. When Sherlock met John, he thought getting a flatmate would mean some stimulating conversation, an assistant at crime scenes, access to medical supplies and someone capable of smoothing things over when Sherlock was at his most offensive. He had not expected to be getting a friend, too, but that was just a bonus. The constant stream of wedding invitations, however, was unexpected, inconvenient and just plain baffling.

How did John know so many people? Surely there weren’t that many people in Britain getting married. Army buddies, mates from university, extended family he didn’t go to for help when he was down on his luck, but who expected nice china from him all the same. He’d been invited to the wedding of a stranger they met at a pub. One of _Sherlock’s_ cousins asked him to make a speech at their ceremony. For heaven’s sake, they were once standing over the corpse of a woman and having her brother telling them that when it came to wedding gifts, ‘Country Rose’ was the preferred china pattern.

It wouldn’t have bothered Sherlock if John insisted on wasting every Saturday on someone’s wedding, but John expected Sherlock to go with him. John, the eternal optimist, always ticked ‘bringing a guest’ on his response card, and never seemed to have a girlfriend by the time the wedding rolled around, or worried it was too soon to be going to a wedding together, or didn’t want to give her the wrong idea or some such rubbish. Either way, Sherlock seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time attending weddings.

 

***  
Molly Hooper & Sam Brown  
28th June  
***

Though Sherlock seemed to spend a lot of time attending weddings, invitations sent to 221b were never actually addressed to Sherlock, and the general populace seemed to agree with Sherlock that he had no place attending weddings.

But this one was different.

This one said ‘ _We request the honour of the presence_ Sherlock Holmes,’

This one said ‘ _The Marriage of Molly Hooper to Sam Brown_ ,’

This one caught him entirely off guard.

“What are you looking at?” John asked, wandering out of the bathroom, towelling his hair roughly.

“Wedding invite,” Sherlock said.

“Christ, not another one,” John said. “Who is it this time? Paul? Tabitha? I think Belinda said she was looking at eloping, but if her mother found out, there’s no way she’d get away with that.”

John reached absently for it and Sherlock tightened his grip, surprised by the sudden possessiveness that rushed over him.

“No, it’s for me.”

“Really?” John asked, taken aback. “Who on earth do you know that could be getting married?”

“Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said. John blinked in surprise, then slowly smiled.

“Good on Molly,” John said.

Sherlock was rather put out when, in the next lot of post, John received his very own invitation to Molly’s wedding.

*

“These line-ups are absurd,” Sherlock complained as they crossed the lawn from the car park, heading towards the marquee where Molly, Sam, Molly’s parents and Sam’s parents stood in a line, greeting guests.

“Just smile, shake their hands, and say it was a lovely wedding,” John said. “A beautiful ceremony, aren’t you proud, that sort of thing.”

“But the wedding was boring,” Sherlock said. “The ceremony trite, and why would marrying off a child make a parent proud? It was hardly their doing, and besides, Molly has achieved far more interesting things than marrying someone.”

“If you can’t manage any of that, just say thank you,” Jon said

“ _Thank you_?” Sherlock said, sounding appalled. “What on earth would I be thanking _them_ for?”

“They didn’t write their own vows, there were no pop songs, guests weren’t invited to recite poems or perform interpretative dances,” John said. “You’ve been to a lot of weddings; you know how bad it can get. There’s a lot to be thankful for.”

“True,” Sherlock conceded. He threw on a very bright and very fake smile as his hand was rather vigorously shaken by a man Sherlock deduced to be Sam Brown’s father, managing a cheery, “Thank you, we appreciated the lack of fire-eaters.”

Mr Brown nodded uncertainly and Sherlock continued up the line.

“How thoughtful of you to provide seating, Mrs Brown.”

“You were so nice and quiet, you must be proud.”

“If it had been just a bit shorter, it would have been the perfect wedding.”

When he reached Molly, Sherlock brushed a kiss across her cheek and said, surprisingly sincerely, “Congratulations” leaving Molly blushing and looking pleased. Sam’s blustering joke about jealousy was lost under Sherlock’s “Try not to be boring, Mr Hooper.”

John clapped Sam jovially on the shoulder in an attempt to buck up the man, but his gaze followed Sherlock making a beeline for the little cakes being served, and John smiled, feeling quietly satisfied with himself.

*

“Why is Lestrade here? Did Mycroft put him up to it?” Sherlock demanded, spotting Lestrade across the marquee. Lestrade gave them a wave and started heading over.

“He knows Sam,” John said.

“Who?”

“The groom, Sherlock.”

“Oh, dull. Wait, how does he know him?” Sherlock asked.

“He’s one of Lestrade’s sergeants. You’ve met him before,” John said indulgently. He cocked his head slightly. “You know, I think they actually met through Lestrade. Case with the disappearing toenails?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Sherlock! John,” Lestrade greeted cheerfully. “Top notch wedding, don’t you think? Surprised you came though, Sherlock. Weddings aren’t really your scene, I’d’ve said. Not many murders at a wedding.”

“Thus has been my disappointing findings so far,” Sherlock said, frowning. John laughed.

“Been to many weddings then?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I seem to be attending weddings endlessly.”

Lestrade frowned, confused. “Whose? No offense mate, but Molly’s the only person I can think of mad enough to think inviting you to a wedding is a good idea.”

“I drag him along,” John explained hastily, cutting off whatever sulky retort Sherlock was planning. “As my plus one.”

“Oh. Ohh,” Lestrade said. “Right. How on earth do you talk him into going to weddings?”

There was a pause. A rather long pause. Sherlock’s face had scrunched up as he wracked his brain for the answer.

“Well,” John said finally. “I ask him, he says no, we steal Mycroft’s credit card to buy the gift and I try not to strangle him when he says something offensive.”

Sherlock’s face smoothed out and he nodded, satisfied, as though the world still made sense, he had just forgotten how, precisely.

*

“Molly, what a lovely wedding,” John said. “You look splendid.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” Molly said, smiling shyly. They nodded awkwardly at each other.

“The- the flowers are great,” John said.

“Why is your landlady here?” Molly asked.

“She’s Sherlock’s plus one,” John said.

“Right.” Molly nodded uncertainly. “I forgot we gave you two separate invites.”

They fell into an awkward silence, nodded inanely, before a thought struck Molly.

“He’s not actually _with_ her, is he?”

“Oh, christ, no,” John said hastily. Molly gave a nervous laugh.

“No, well, you never really know with him, do you? Not that it would matter, I mean, if he wanted- or she was- I just thought- well, it’s hard to imagine him in a relationship, isn’t it? But if he was, I suppose it would be a bit, um, of an _unusual_ one, yeah?” Molly stammered. “I’m glad he came. He looks like he’s having fun, don’t you think?”

She looked over John’s shoulder and when he followed her line of sight he spotted Sherlock dancing with Mrs Hudson and smiled fondly before turning back to Molly. There was a brief worrying moment when John though Molly was looking a bit too wistfully at Sherlock, but then Sam came up to them, and she lit up, beamed at him. John made his excuses left the pair, heading back over to Sherlock.

“Molly thought you were shagging Mrs Hudson,” John said, when Sherlock left the dance floor and headed over to him. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, eyes widening. John nearly doubled over laughing.

*

By the end of the evening, Sherlock had managed to get himself quite tipsy, and seemed keen for John to take him and Mrs Hudson out for a curry. John smiled indulgently and didn’t pursue the bridesmaid who had spent the evening eyeing him up.

 

***  
Isobel Elsom & Harry Watson  
19th October  
***

The second time Sherlock received a wedding invitation, it was similarly shocking to the first, but in a different way. Molly, whom Sherlock had foolishly never considered as being someone who could get married and stop having time for fetching Sherlock body parts and coffee, was quite fond of Sherlock, so it made sense that she would invite him to her wedding. Harry, on the other hand, Sherlock wasn’t surprised to see getting remarried, but he was rather under the impression that she hated him, so why she would invite him to her wedding was quite beyond him. John was similarly confused when he saw the invite addressed to Sherlock.

“I didn’t know you were close with Harry,” John said.

“I’m not,” Sherlock said. “Unless punching someone in the face is a way you Watsons show affection.”

John laughed. “It’s fifty-fifty with Harry, when it comes to punching. She certainly wasn’t happy when I slept with her girlfriend, but I like to think she was pleased when I survived the war.”

Sherlock nodded absently, frowning at the beige and gold card-stock.

“It’s going to be a bloody disaster,” John said, sighing and flopping down onto the sofa. They sat in companionable silence, John massaging his temples, and Sherlock apparently trying to puzzle out the mystery of the invite.

*

“Do you know how many times I have had to prevent myself from strangling Harry?” John said when Sherlock slipped into the small hall outside Harry’s dressing room. Sherlock glanced over John.

“Seven?”

John huffed out a small, involuntary laugh, body sagging as the tension left him.

“Nine,” John said. “And there’s still another half-an-hour before the ceremony starts. “I don’t suppose you’ve worked out how to kill someone and not get caught?”

“Fooling the police ought to be easy,” Sherlock said. “But they might get suspicious if I start agreeing with Anderson’s conclusions.”

“True,” John said. “Never mind then.”

“Anyway, it would be a pity to let that cake go to waste,” Sherlock said.

*

“John, what-” Sherlock said, startled, as John marched over to Sherlock, took the glass out of Sherlock’s hand and sculled it. He didn’t have a chance to finish the question as John pushed the glass back at him, gave a sharp nod, and walked away again.

“Don’t worry about him,” Mrs Hudson said. “Weddings are stressful occasions, we all go a bit mad. Put your glass down, I fancy another dance.”

*

“You know, the first time she got married it was actually sort of nice,” John said wistfully.

“And you are extrapolating that each subsequent wedding will be increasingly unbearable?” Sherlock said. “Don’t go theorising without all the data, John.”

“I’m not,” John said. “Harry’s drinking alcoholic champagne.”

“Isobel doesn’t know about her alcoholism then,” Sherlock said.

“Christ,” John said. “What can I do about her?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “She’s not your responsibility.”

John looked at Sherlock and sighed. “She’s family.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that.

*

“I can’t believe her,” John said, pacing back and forth in front of Sherlock. “I cannot ruddy believe her. D’you know what she’s telling everyone? That she couldn’t have the reception at the Orangery because her brother’s a sodding _cripple_ and it’s not set up for disabilities.”

John was shaking with rage, clenching and unclenching his fists, eyes dark and jaw tight. Sherlock stood beside him uncertainly, watching John keenly, feeling strangely helpless. Noticing the tension along John’s shoulders, Sherlock reached out and started to squeeze them. John stiffened slightly, startled, then moved closer and leaned into Sherlock’s touch when he realised what Sherlock was trying to do.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, when John had relaxed enough that it wasn’t painful to look at him. “Let’s find Mrs Hudson.”

John laughed. “You know you’ve baffled Harry by bringing Mrs Hudson?”

“I think it would be much stranger if I hadn’t,” Sherlock said. “How could we be expected to survive this wedding without her?”

*

“Well, I suppose that’s over and done with,” John said. “At least for a few more years.”

“Silly girl,” Mrs Hudson said sadly. “Family’s always tricky, though, isn’t it?”

“Very true, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock agreed.

 

***  
Mycroft Holmes & Claire Crichton-Stuart  
19th February  
***

The third wedding Sherlock was invited to was promptly torn up and thrown in the bin. Mycroft had apparently prepared for this, as John’s invitation was disguised as an electricity bill and had a note insisting John make Sherlock attend, and included a cheque to cover the cost of two new suits for them to wear.

*

Sherlock glared darkly at John for forcing him into the expensive suit, out of the house and into the absurdly fancy car.

Sherlock had been glaring darkly at John ever since he had found out about the disguised invite and John’s intention to obey Mycroft’s orders, so it was fairly easy to ignore him.

“This is exciting, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson said cheerfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever been picked up by a chauffeur before. And at my time of life you stop expecting these things.”

“Ah, Mrs Hudson, you’re still young yet,” John said.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and batted a hand at John’s shoulder, smiling. “It was nice of Mycroft to invite me. Paid for my dress too.”

“It’s lovely,” John said. “You’ll be turning heads, just you wait and see.”

Mrs Hudson laughed and Sherlock unfolded himself, dropping his scowl and wrapping an arm around Mrs Hudson’s shoulders.

“No falling in love with strangers, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said sternly. “I don’t want the next invite we receive to be yours. 221 wouldn’t cope without you, and I don’t like the idea of a stranger in the house.”

“I’ll fall in love with who I like,” Mrs Hudson said.

“No,” Sherlock said decisively. “Clearly I will need to spend the night monopolising your attention.”

*

“You know he’s just getting married for the cake,” Sherlock said, murmuring into John’s ear.

“Do we call them Mr and Mrs The British Government?” John whispered back. “Or do you think they’ll go for Mr and Mrs The Secret Service? Mr and Mrs MI-6?”

“ _Boys_ ,” Mrs Hudson whispered sternly and Sherlock and John fell silent for a few moments before erupting into poorly smothered giggles.

*  
“Come, John, this wedding is looking up!” Sherlock said, dropping to the ground and starting to crawl under a bush, heedless of his ridiculously expensive suit.

“I’m good, thanks,” John said. “I wouldn’t mind getting to wear this again, so I’ll just stand here and keep an eye out, eh?”

“An excellent idea!” was Sherlock’s muffled response and John laughed to himself before popping back inside for more champagne.

*  
“John,” Mycroft said smoothly. “I’m so pleased you could make it. I trust you are having a good time?”

“It’s certainly one of the more interesting weddings I’ve been to,” John said. “At the very least it’s the first that has involved a crime organised to keep the groom’s brother occupied.”

“Organise?” Mycroft said, smiling a cool, rather off-putting smile. “Nothing was organised. It was more of a... happy coincidence, shall we say?”

“I’m sure it was,” John said.

“I’m afraid I must circulate,” Mycroft said. “Do give my regards to Mrs Hudson.”

*

“And you got all of that from a crushed leaf?” John asked, amazed.

“A crushed _Maclura pomifera_ leaf, a smear of mud and four black hairs, actually,” Sherlock corrected, looking very pleased with himself.

“Amazing,” John said. “Truly amazing. You do realise you’ve managed to catch a man the police have been after for months now?”

“It was either that or listen to the speeches,” Sherlock said, grinning. John laughed and they headed back inside.

 

*

“I’m so glad he has you,” Mrs Hudson said, slipping into her seat. John jumped slightly, and pulled his eyes away from where he was watching Sherlock explain to the security guard why he had pockets full of stolen watches and rings.

“Sorry?” John said.

“Sherlock, I’m so glad he has you,” Mrs Hudson said. “He’s always been a very special man, and so full of energy, but I’ve never seen him as happy as when he is with you. It’s quite a relief to know he’s being taken care of.”

“Oh,” John said. “I’m- I’m glad I have him too. He- yeah, he makes me happy and before I- wasn’t.”

“That’s good,” Mrs Hudson said, smiling and patting John’s hand.

*

“Do you really think Mycroft organised for me to solve that crime?” Sherlock asked sulkily. “Of course he did. Didn’t want me ruining his wedding.”

“Does it really matter?” John asked, feeling rather tired and not up for dealing with Sherlock.

“Of course it does,” Sherlock said. “It means he won.”

“Take it from me, Sherlock,” John said. “There’s no winning when it comes to siblings. Now, go find Mrs Hudson and let’s go home.”

 

***  
Martha Hudson  
1937 - 2011  
***

Sherlock refused to have anything to do with the invitations, so John took them on with a heavy heart, drawing on the strength he hadn’t needed to access since the days of tending to the wounded under a line of fire. Then Sherlock declared John was doing them entirely wrong and redid them over and over and over until John pulled him away and wrestled him into bed and sent them off to the printers.

“It’s absurd,” Sherlock said, when he awoke the next morning. “I don’t know why I thought I could get them right. It wasn’t the font or the colour of the card-stock that was wrong. As long as they have to say her name, as long as she needs funeral invitations, it’s going to be wrong.”

“Sherlock,” John said softly, reaching a hand out to lay on Sherlock’s arm, hoping to soothe the angry wretchedness bubbling over, but Sherlock was unreachable.

“They are ridiculous things anyway,” Sherlock said. “I mean really, look at them! They look nearly identical to wedding invites, only there’s one name and two dates and a couple of “delighted”s are swapped for some “mournfully” and “with a heavy heart”. They’re even printed by the same companies! It’s an absolute farce. A joke. A cruel taunt.”

“Sherlock,” John said again, more forcefully, managing this time to break through. Sherlock looked at him expectantly, eyes wide, hoping for some explanation for the situation they found themselves in, but John’s mind went blank and Sherlock’s eyes shuttered. He gave John curt nod and swept out of the room.

*

Sherlock had been to funerals before, more than a few. For many a great aunt and uncle, second cousin, grandparent, and family friend had Sherlock been forced into black mourning wear. He had endured in sulky silence eulogies, prayers and hymns, dragged from chapel to wake, heard tearfully told stories of so-and-so’s youthful exploits and watched relatives fight.

But none of that had prepared him for this.

_Nothing_ could have prepared him for this.

Sherlock thought he had experienced death in nearly every variation possible. Sherlock had seen violent deaths and artistic deaths and passionate deaths. He had seen poisonings and shootings, stabbings and smotherings, suicides and accidents, boring deaths, interesting deaths, fake deaths, his head was so full of death.

But this was different somehow. New data. No. This wasn’t _data_. He couldn’t process this, couldn’t file it away. He couldn’t make this make sense.

Mrs Hudson lay so peacefully.

And Sherlock didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to do. Didn’t not what to _feel_. He stood, staring at her lovely face unable to comprehend that she would never scold him again, unable to stop the pain deep in his belly from consuming him, unable to do anything but stand there and stare at her and not understand. A warm hand slipped into his own and squeezed, followed by a familiar voice leaning in to whisper in his ear, “Do you need more time with her?” and all Sherlock could do was turn to John, eyes bright with tears and say,

“I do, but there’s no more time to be had. Take me away from her John, I can’t seem to leave of my own accord.”

They walked back down to their seats in the chapel, John’s presence warm and comforting beside Sherlock, but nothing he could say or do could take away the gnawing sadness inside him. When they arrived home, though, and John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him, slowly, deeply, sadly, and they collapsed into bed, exhausted, clinging to each other, and Sherlock felt that perhaps John understood the pain of losing Mrs Hudson, that they could share it, the burden of loss and the joy of having loved such a woman. And that somehow, together, things might be okay once more, one day. That perhaps England would not fall, or at least, that maybe they could take the pieces and build her up once more.

 

***  
Sherlock Holmes & ___________  
5th January  
***

Seeing a wedding invitation with his name as a groom, proclaiming his delight in inviting others to his wedding, was a rather surreal experience, and Sherlock took the time to read it over, trying to puzzle out why it felt so strange to look at.

John wandered sleepily out of their bedroom, smothering a yawn as he clicked the jug and asked, “What’s that, love?”

“Wedding invitation,” Sherlock said. John perked up and smiled, coming over for a look.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, they’ve left my name off the invitation!” John said.

“We can fix that later,” Sherlock said.

“You’d better,” John said. “I don’t want you swapping me out for someone else at the last minute.”

Sherlock laughed, shaken out of his reverie and John leaned down to kiss him. It had surprised them how quickly physical affection had come to them, their romantic interactions slotting easily in with the rest of their lives, just a natural extension of their partnership.

“I’ll try not to,” Sherlock said, keeping John’s face close to his, a hand wrapped around the nape of John’s neck. “But I would be an idiot to pass up someone better if they came along.”

John gave Sherlock’s lip a teasing nip, before saying, “Better? I’ll show you better. You ought to know by now I’m the best you’ll ever see and far more than you deserve.”

*

“These suits are ridiculous,” Sherlock murmured.

“So you said when we first saw them, when we discussed buying them, when we paid for them, when we went to our fittings, when the alterations were done,” John muttered back. “Every time I said you could pick something else and you didn’t. Well it’s too late now, so stop whinging and pay attention, I don’t want to miss our cue.”

“It’s hardly rocket science,” Sherlock whispered, rolling his eyes. “This imbecile will eventually stop talking, look at you and when there’s a silence you just have to agree.”

The minister glared at Sherlock, but continued on, undeterred and John failed to repress the urge to giggle.

*

“Speeches, John, why did there have to be speeches?” Sherlock said, sighing dramatically. “Speeches are the most moronic invention humans have ever come up with, and given how idiotic most people are, that’s really saying something.”

“So you said,” John said. “In your speech.”

*

“Are you still sure I’m not allowed to commit sororicide?” John asked, dropping his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s hand came up automatically to smooth down John’s hair.

“Not if you keep insisting I can’t commit fratricide,” Sherlock said. John huffed out a laugh.

“I’m starting to rethink my position on that,” John said.

“Well, while you’re thinking, I’ll deduce some people for you,” Sherlock said. He dropped a kiss into John’s hair. “At least nine people here are going to be inviting us to their weddings and it might be useful to have something to blackmail them with.”

*

“Tell these women to stop asking me to dance,” Sherlock said, throwing himself into the chair next to John, ignoring whichever relative, friend, or other boring person John was talking to. They stood up and left with an offended huff when Sherlock glared at them.

“What’s the problem? Is it their dance moves or their conversational skills?” John asked, smiling fondly.

“Both, John,” Sherlock said. “They’re completely insufferable. Mrs Hudson was the only person ever worth dancing with at weddings, without her here, I don’t see the point of it.”

“No, well, Mrs Hudson set a rather high standard.” John stood up and held out a hand. “Will you indulge me? I rather enjoyed our first dance.”

“You stood on my feet,” Sherlock said. “A lot.”

“I know,” John said. “I told you I enjoyed it.”

*

“That’s it, this is the last wedding we are ever going to,” John declared.

“ _Finally_ ,” Sherlock said. “If I had known it would take marrying you to end the farce of attending endless weddings I would have done it ages ago.”


End file.
